Forgive, but Never Forget
by TheLadyJazz
Summary: Set during the Revolutionary War. As the war nears its culmination, America overpowers England on the battlefield. His thoughts as he watches England 'die'.


**Title: **Turning Tides  
><strong>Character(s)Pairing(s): **America; England  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Character Death (sort of)  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Set during the Revolutionary War. As the war nears its culmination, America overpowers England on the battlefield. His thoughts as he watches England 'die'.

**Additional ****Notes:** This is the revised version of a fic I posted for the usxuk summercamp in live journal. I only had less than a day to finish that one so it wasn't as clean as I wanted it to be. Hopefully, you'll find this one a bit better. Also, I was thinking of making this into a multi-chapter fic about how America and England's relationship progress into what it is in the modern times. Of course, it would still be in America's POV, maybe. Haha! Anyway, comment and tell me what you'd like. Thanks!

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><p>England fired at him first.<p>

His right shoulder still stung from having received that musket ball back in Boston. Though the hole had already mended, it still left an aching burn whenever he moved his right arm too forcefully. Contrary to that bastard England's delusions, he would not forgive him so easily for his country men's murders. He doubted he ever will.

That was what America kept telling himself as he plunged his bayonet deep into his former mentor's left breast, spearing him just a little way above his heart. England choked back a gasp.

This had not been the first time he had struck England on the battlefield. And he was not so naive anymore to believe that it would be the last. England for his part, never so much as blinked whenever he pulled the trigger on him (never mind the furrowed brows and the grim expression he wore before he had to. America always pretended never to notice those).

Both knew that no matter how many times they were hit, torn, cut up, punctured, sliced, diced or shredded; they would still mend eventually. America learned that their kind did not die easily. Not as long as the peoples' thoughts and their hearts beat as one. He learned that the first time he was allowed to participate in a war. But back then, he had been fighting alongside England. Now…

Now he was fighting against England, the 'brother' who took away his voice and who denied his people the right to self-representation, who had even scoffed at the mere idea, claiming that it was completely unnecessary. The brother who took every opportunity to remind him that he was but a mere colony. Existing because of and only for the good of the motherland. Loved as long as he was useful. But just as easily disposable as the rest of the Empire's colonies. And it had _hurt_. It hurt him to know that the only one he ever looked up to and loved since he was a child was only using him for his own personal gain. He had been foolish to think that England loved him because he was America, his little boy. England loved him because he was America, his little colony. And somehow, that hurt resurfaced as anger when he realized that England was nothing but a greedy, greedy man who thought that it was alright to claim whatever land he set foot in for himself because he figured he was entitled to them. Bullshit.

_Punish him! Punish! Punish! Punish!_

Prompted by the raw rage and hatred he felt for the man before him and by the sudden rush of adrenaline, he twisted and turned his weapon, until satisfied, he forcibly wretched it free from England's body, pushing the man away for good measure.

The Englishman's face went white from shock before his expression contorted into one of discomfort and then pain as he spat out the blood that began to collect in his mouth. He dropped his own musket to the ground, pressing a shaking hand at the new hole in his chest, trying to stop as much of the blood flow as possible before his knees finally buckled and he collapsed onto the ground, body quivering in silent agony.

"S-shit!" England gasped through gritted teeth; squeezing his eyes shut as multiple waves of pain hit him at once and made his body shiver and rock violently.

The fighting was still raging behind them, but America was focused solely on England. The Englishman was now lying on his side, face digging into the dirt, clutching desperately at his chest wound and body heaving as he struggled to breathe properly. Despite the dire situation, America could have sworn the man had shot him a rather biting glare just then.

"You—"England sputtered before coughing up more blood, effectively staining his jaws. The thick liquid streamed from his wound and colored the grass cooper red as it began to pool beneath England's lithe frame. America blinked. Wait. Had England always been that small? He couldn't remember.

"B-bastard…you… bastard…" England panted, looking up at America.

His face looked ashen. Like he hadn't been eating or sleeping well lately. Green eyes were beginning to dull, getting less focused as the seconds ticked by, and breathing becoming harsher, quicker and more labored. America realized he wouldn't last much longer.

Quite suddenly, the feelings of anger melted and it was replaced by a sinking feeling that churned his stomach. America swallowed the big lump in his throat and tried to quash down the feelings of guilt. Why should he feel guilty? This was war after all. If their positions were reversed, he was sure England would look down at him with a smirk on his face. Silently blaming him. Cursing him for leaving him. America swallowed again. But he wasn't England, was he? He couldn't be ruthless like him. Maybe he didn't want to be. Couldn't be. Not yet anyway. Maybe someday, he could kill another man, a brother, without batting an eyelash but right now, he wasn't sure he was capable of that. Mouthing a silent curse, America looked away from the dying man.

England had sent him into a comatose state more than enough times since his revolution started- he'd experienced enough 'deaths' like this—for him not to know just how painful and uncomfortable 'dying' could be (though he was aware that 'death' to their kind was more like passing out than anything else). Now, he was merely returning the favor. But although nations healed fairly quickly they weren't immune to pain.

But he couldn't show mercy. He couldn't afford to show any sign of weakness in front of England. After all, this was war and war made no room for men who pitied their enemies. He was fighting for the right cause! He was fighting in the name of freedom, for his people's independence! It wasn't as if the British were giving any of them a choice in the matter. If revolution was what it would take to break free from the binds of the crown, then he was willing to fight until the very end. And yet…for all the conviction he possessed, all this fighting still left a bitter taste in his mouth. He still felt very miserable after the end of every battle.

He wondered if England felt the same.

_For life, liberty, and the pursuit of happin-_

A soft gasp startled America from his reverie. He looked at England again. England still had his eyes trained on him, only this time he had faraway look in them—as if, he was focusing on something unseen, something else beyond America.

He supposed it was the lingering traces of an affection left for a former caretaker that prompted him to do what he did next. Or maybe it was only the cold of the January morning that was affecting his good senses. Most probably, it was just his (distorted, if it was willing to help an enemy) sense of justice. Gently, he turned England so that he was lying on his back and turned his head to his right, allowing the Brit to breathe a little bit better in his new position. He pretended not to see the way those hooded green eyes flickered up at him once, dimmed but calculating. Soft almost.

Apart from his heavy breathing, England was silent. Every now and again, he would let out a disgruntled sigh or a grunt of pain. Lying there, staring up at the open sky, England looked so very much alone that it made America's heart clench involuntary. He contemplated leaving him to join the fighting below but figured he might as well stay since the man didn't have much time left anyway. He reasoned that, unlike England, his heart wasn't made of stone. He had yet to learn to be as cold and as disconnected as the man before him.

It was only when England had gone completely still that America walked over to where he lay to carefully, gently close his green eyes. He sighed when he felt the skin start to cook beneath his touch.

"Rest for now." He told England's unconscious form. Turning his back, he added: "See you another time."

Loud cheers erupted from behind him. Hitchcock had just ordered his men to charge. The remaining redcoats were fleeing but Washington and the others were gaining speed behind them.

"It's a fine fox chase my boys!" he heard his general shout. America licked his lips. Casting England one last look, he stood up and jogged towards his unit.

The next time the two would meet would be in 1781, in the rain, with their muskets pointed at each other.

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><p><strong>Historical Note: <strong>The setting here is the Battle of Princeton which took place in January 3, 1777. The Americans were being overrun by the British Army when General Washington came with reinforcements and rallied the soldiers. They drove back British forces and continued to chase fleeing militia even after an order of retreat was given. George Washington claimed as many as 100 British soldiers had been killed and 300 wounded in that battle.

**Author's Note:** My first fic ever! First of all, English is not my mother language so forgive me for any grammatical errors and the like. I promise that I'll try my best to improve. Secondly…oh god, that was so intense! I'm not sure how I feel about the death scene or if I got America's characterization right. I was trying to go for confusion on his part, mainly, because I think that America being America would never admit feeling any pity or guilt for hurting a person he used to care about. For England's part, his pride would never allow him to look so undignified while bleeding to his death in the dirt. Even in death he is too proud! . So anyway, I hope you enjoyed my little attempt at angst. Comments and reviews would be appreciated! :D


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